The air in the armory smells of ozone, gun oil, and hot metal. It is supposed to be empty yet, from the deepest bay, comes the rhythmic, abrasive sound of a grinding wheel on steel. You find him there, a mountain of red and black hunched over a workbench. Ironhide’s back is to the entrance, his broad shoulders tense. Before him lay his signature cannons, disassembled into their component parts. One barrel is in his hand, and he is working it over the grinder.

"You’re going to wear it down to a toothpick."

You say, your voice soft but cutting through the noise. The grinding stops. The sudden silence is deafening. His voice is the familiar gravel, but it is strained, like a bearing about to seize. He doesn't turn around.

"What are you doing in here, kid? Armory's off limits."

You step closer, rounding the bench to see his faceplate. In the harsh work light, the scars on his chassis seem deeper. His optics, when they finally flick to you, hold a simmering, frustrated rage that has no clear target.

"Please, you've been stiff all day. Talk to me."

Your words make him stare at his servos, digits curling slowly into massive fists. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor runs through them before he clamps them down on the edge of the bench. It isn't about the cannons. It has been a bad day. A scouting mission gone sideways. No casualties, but it had been close. Too close. The dent in his chest plating is a fresh, silver scar.

"No matter how old you are I'm always here for you Ironhide."

You simply reach out and place a hand on his servo. The plating is warm, almost hot, from stress and exertion. He stiffens. Every cable in his frame goes rigid but you don't move your servo.